


Our Very Own Paper Lanterns

by snufflesfoot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Walked into the wrong flat, nurse!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snufflesfoot/pseuds/snufflesfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Merlin had pushed open the door to the wrong flat and stumbled in to see his (extremely fit) neighbor in nothing but (extremely tight) boxer shorts, giving an (extremely bad) rendition of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” into a mixing whisk.  It's not like it was his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Very Own Paper Lanterns

It wasn’t his fault.

No, really, it wasn’t even _locked_ , for god’s sake.

He had just been…tired, is all.

Really, you couldn’t blame him with the day he’d had; three car accidents (they all lived), four cases of pink eye (he hoped this wasn’t the start of an outbreak), a couple asthmatics (who were using their inhalers upside down), and a fellow with a potato up his arse (Merlin didn’t ask).

So yes, one of the worst evening shifts of A&E history was justifiable cause for a bit of exhaustion in Merlin’s book.

Anyway, it wasn’t that big of a _deal_.  If you really think about it, he had actually been pretty close.

So he’d pushed open the door to the wrong flat and stumbled in to see his (extremely fit) neighbor in nothing but (extremely tight) boxer shorts, giving an (extremely bad) rendition of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” into a mixing whisk.

Who had then stood stock still with a much better rendition of the deer-in-headlights look as Merlin tripped over his apologies and also tripped over his feet while backpedaling out of the place and closing the door firmly behind him.

He had only been one door away.  Pretty…close?

Merlin’s arrant and acute mortification was consoled a bit by Will’s optimistic “At least you’ll have no shortage of wank fantasies tonight.”

~*~

Merlin had seen Fit Bloke around before, of course, saw him when he first moved in a couple months ago.  He was pretty hard to miss what with his cocky strut and designer suits and that _face_.

He was one of those gorgeous guys who knew just how bloody gorgeous he was.  Which made him even more gorgeous.  It was a vicious cycle.

Really, a jaw line that sharp should come with some sort of warning label.  It was a danger to society, that jaw was.

And his eyes were the sort of piercing that froze you where you stood, pinning you into yourself while your heart catapulted to your knees.

Also, how in hell did his hair look so damn soft and fluffy and chaotically wonderful?  He was a bloke, for Christ sake.  A bloke’s hair should never be described as fluffy.  Golden, too.  It was like his hair could just absorb all the sunshine in the room and radiate it back—even in the damn dark and just how was that fucking possible?  Or fair, for that matter.

After careful deliberation, Merlin concluded that the guy was a distant relative of Rapunzel.

~*~

The second time it happened was a week later.  And it still wasn’t his fault.  It was all Will’s doing (it was always all Will’s doing).

Will was the reason he had been dragged to every club in the city in under five hours.  Will was the reason he had had to beg off at the arse crack of dawn, after listening to him mope about some girl that wouldn’t shag him (for good reason probably) for those five excruciating hours. 

So Will was the reason he had dazedly staggered into the wrong flat (again, not locked) just in time to blearily witness the maddeningly magnificent form of his neighbor in nothing but a towel loosely slung around his hips.

Merlin almost gave himself a concussion from running out the door so fast.

~*~

The third time happened later the same day.  It involved a morning run (Fit Bloke’s), an extreme hangover (Merlin’s), and untied shoelaces that were _very easy_ to trip over and into an open door.  Merlin would rather not talk about it.

~*~

“So you finally learned how to knock.”

Merlin winced in embarrassment and ducked his head, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck and wondering why someone hadn’t given him the Son of the Fucking Century Award yet.

He certainly deserved it, as his mother _had_ to come visit with only a day’s notice (not that he didn’t want her to come.  He adored her.  Hence the Award), and her favorite food _had_ to be coconut cream pie and every shop in a five mile radius _had_ to be closed and the world _had_ to conspire against Merlin in any and every way it saw fit.

So here he was, soliciting coconut flakes from a fit bloke he had never spoken to, but had walked in on when nearly naked.  Three times.

Merlin blushed some more.

~*~

Merlin didn't quite understand how he ended up shoved between Fit Bloke's (maybe he should start calling him Arthur, in light of recent events.  Right.  Arthur's) kitchen counter and Arthur himself-- the metaphorical rock and a hard place.  Taken way too literally, as Arthur was currently pressing himself along the entire length of Merlin, hands burning on the small of his back and mouth sucking on that place behind his ear that made Merlin go boneless.

Merlin may not understand it, but it still wasn't his fault.  No, really!  Because Arthur’s ass had been right _there_ , and bent over, too.

Though, his slow reflexes may have been partly to blame when he was too slow to look away when Arthur turned around and then all he could see was a smug smile that really shouldn't have looked so devastatingly inviting as he sauntered over and a mesmerizing pair of lips that seemed to get closer and closer until Merlin went a bit cross-eyed.

"You want me," Arthur had said, and yes, he had said it not asked it because Arthur, as Merlin was coming to learn, was a prat.

A very handsy prat.

Not that Merlin was complaining, no, not at all, not even when Arthur hoisted him onto the counter top as if he were a swooning regency heroine, trapping him against the cool marble with strong hands and warm breaths.

So, no, Merlin didn’t disagree, just tipped his head back to make way for the nipping teeth and roaming fingers.

“Is this payback for all the times I’ve seen you nearly naked?”

Arthur huffed against the dip between Merlin’s collarbones before saying, “Something like that.”

After several attempts at regaining some form of coherent thought against the not unappreciated onslaught of Arthur's mouth, Merlin tried his best to lift himself off the counter and steer them to the bedroom.

“Come on,” he tugged at the edge of Arthur’s shirt as he slides onto the floor. 

Arthur stilled.  “Fuck,” he said, and “okay.”  Arthur stared at him for a beat and leaned in again, and this time the kiss was soft and small, barely brushing against the corner of his mouth and so completely, unexpectedly gentle.  Merlin tried to ignore the way his heart dropped into his stomach and settled there, heavy and warm and exactly right.

Merlin didn't usually do this.  He didn't pull at bars, he didn't do whirlwind one night stands, and he certainly didn't go for the literal boy-next-door.  But it was odd— Arthur didn't  _feel_ new or different or strange or anything else that comes with all the first times.  He felt warm and familiar and it was like Merlin was drawn to him, drawn to whatever was mixed in between his cocky smirks and Rapunzel hair and gentle fingertips.

“Well?  Are you coming or not?  Or did you get too distracted staring at my face.  I mean I completely understand, but really Merlin—”

Merlin shut Arthur up with a hard pull to where his hand was clenched around the collar of his shirt, dragging Arthur behind him.  Arthur took this opportunity to sufficiently grope Merlin’s ass, all the while chuckling in his ear.

Merlin got back at him for that by way of a long nail mark along Arthur’s back.

~*~

Merlin woke up peppered with bruises, dark, rich purple spotting his shoulders and neck and _hips_ what the _fuck_ Arthur.  Damn him and his unnatural obsession with giving hickeys.  Merlin would scold him (or fuck him some more) but the massive prat was nowhere to be found, and Merlin can’t really figure out why he suddenly feels so cold under the pile of blankets.  Mentally shaking himself to _get a fucking grip, Merlin_ , he rolled out of bed and went on a hunt for his clothes strewn about the room.

Just as he had pulled on his pants, the door opens to a gasping and red-faced Arthur.

“Oh good,” he huffed, hands on his knees.  “You’re still here.”

Merlin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as he tried to bite back a smile at seeing Arthur.  “Did you run a bloody marathon?”

Arthur put his hands on top of head to breathe easier and his shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of skin that Merlin became inexplicably fixated on.  He snapped out of it when he heard the words “coconut cream pie.”

“Huh?”

“I said, I ran down to the store to get your pie,” he said, holding up a laden plastic bag as proof.  “So you should really be more grateful, you tart.”

Merlin pulled a face.  “Did you just call me a tart?”

Apparently Arthur had gathered enough breath to push himself off the door frame and straddle Merlin onto the bed.

“You’re wearing nothing but you’re tight little scrub pants, so yes Merlin, I called you a tart.”

“Why don’t we remedy the ‘wearing’ situation?”

Arthur laughed against Merlin’s collarbone, and Merlin leaned into it, into how the sound curled around his bones and settled there, warm and full.

“ _Tart._ ”


End file.
